


Auld Acquaintance

by Anarfea



Series: Shifting Seasons [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad Decisions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:01:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22809043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarfea/pseuds/Anarfea
Summary: It's New Year's Eve, and Mycroft decides the best way to get over Greg Lestrade is to get under someone else.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Shifting Seasons [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1608547
Comments: 30
Kudos: 130





	Auld Acquaintance

Before tonight, Mycroft looked at Greg with a certain … appreciation. But he never considered that Greg might be bisexual, that he might …. He still dares not consider. Greg is in a crisis, at a turning point. It’s obvious that he seriously considered having sex with Mycroft tonight. Mycroft could feel it in the air, crackling between them like ozone. Greg wanted to touch him. Mycroft wanted Greg to touch him. But Greg’s desire is that of a man poised on a precipice, vertigo swirling his vision so badly that jumping feels like the logical, inevitable cure for his dizziness. He wants out of his disaster of a marriage, and Mycroft is a convenient button, bright red with ‘self destruct’ painted on it, and Greg has itchy fingers. Mycroft is all too willing to let himself be the final straw that breaks the back of Greg Lestrade’s marriage, but knows that if he does so, the likelihood is great that Greg will associate him with the emotional turmoil of his divorce and that Mycroft will be consigned to the role of rebound fling, nothing more.

And, why, _why_ does he want more? What even does he mean by ‘more.’? Mycroft has never wanted a relationship. He has had several long-standing arrangements with other discreet, career-driven men like himself, men he meets once or twice a month in impersonal hotel rooms for brief, efficient sex. He does not spend the night with them. He does not cuddle. He does not worry about their inner lives. Tonight, Greg made himself vulnerable, offered up all kinds of information about his failing marriage to Mycroft, who is no relationship expert and furthermore, is not unbiased. _Leave her_ , he wanted to say. _She doesn’t deserve you. She can’t make you happy._ As if Mycroft could. The notion of Mycroft making anyone happy is absurd.

And Greg Lestrade deserves to be happy. Of this Mycroft is certain. His association with Sherlock, which arguably has saved Sherlock’s life, has earned him a lifetime of goodwill wishes from Mycroft. And Mycroft has, in small ways, tried to assure Greg’s happiness. He smoothed things out with the Police Commissioner after Greg took heat for bringing Sherlock in as a consultant, for one. But he has stopped short of demanding that Greg be promoted. Greg would not appreciate that. He’s a man who wants to succeed or fail on his own merits. Taking credit for Sherlock’s solutions to his cases galls him.

Fact: Greg Lestrade deserves to be happy. Fact: Greg is in a relationship with a woman who is making him miserable. Fact: Mycroft could end Greg’s miserable marriage by seducing him. This would mean that Greg and he would never be anything more, but Mycroft already knows that he can never have anything more, so what does that matter? Why not just allow Greg to use him for however long it lasts, and then let him move on?

Because he is afraid. Mycroft lies, including to himself, about a great many things, but when it comes to matters of self-preservation, he is brutally honest. Greg got under his skin tonight, in a way that no one has in many years. If he allows himself to take his pleasure with Greg, he runs a very real risk of becoming attached. Of wanting the ‘more’ that he cannot allow himself to have. He was reckless tonight. He allowed Greg to see his desire, his availability. His vulnerability. Thankfully, Greg is too honorable a man to cheat on his wife, even though she’s running around on him. Mycroft dodged a bullet tonight. He avoided an entanglement which could only hurt him.

Greg will be back. Mycroft has no doubt. His marriage is crumbling, and when it finally collapses, he will want someone to help him pick up the pieces. He will call Mycroft again. And Mycroft will answer. And he will try to provide whatever inept, biased advice he can. But he will not, must not, let himself end up in Greg Lestrade’s bed.

* * *

Mycroft is not at all surprised when his phone pings on New Year’s Eve. If anything, it surprises him that Greg held out this long. He expected to hear from him during his three days of enforced annual leave. And he didn’t, and that was both a relief and a disappointment. But now, Greg is texting him.

**Hey, just wanted to say Happy New Year. Well, Happy New Year’s Eve, anyway. Do you have plans?**

This one is easy.

**Regrettably, yes. Black tie affair, horribly tedious.**

**You going stag?**

Mycroft’s fingers hesitate. Greg is clearly angling to know if he has a plus one, possibly to _be_ his plus one, which is bolder even than Mycroft expected. Should Mycroft say he’s going alone, and risk Greg thinking he has a chance? Or should he lie, and pretend he has a date? Should he actually ask Anthea to procure him a date?

**Anthea usually accompanies me to such events.**

There. He neglects to mention that she has other plans tonight.

**That’s great. She’s great. Have a great time.**

**I doubt it. These events are inevitably dull.**

**Drink a glass of champagne for me :)**

**I will need more than one to get through the night, I’m sure.**

* * *

Mycroft is on his third glass of champagne when Edmond Paxton catches his eye from across the room. He drains it as the man walks over, looking fit in a slim‐cut tux with a royal blue velvet dinner jacket. Daring.

“Mycroft, fancy seeing you here.”

“Indeed.”

The last time Mycroft saw Edmond was at the London St James Sofitel. He is keenly aware he could end up there tonight, if he so chooses. Edmond is younger than most of the men with whom Mycroft has maintained ‘arrangements,’ but still falls generally into the category he’d outlined to Greg as his ‘type.’ He’s a career diplomat, most recently stationed in Berlin. He’s ambitious, but not in the security services and therefore unlikely to regard Mycroft as a mentor. Those are the worst, the young, gay, MI6 analysts looking for mentors. Edmund is bisexual--like Greg, his brain offers unhelpfully--but unpartnered. He’s also classically handsome and well aware of it. 

Mycroft isn’t sure whether or not he wants him. He knows what he really wants is Greg, but he’s not allowing that to happen, and as the adage goes, the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.

“Can I get you another drink?” asks Edmund.

It’s probably not a good idea--Mycroft is already tipsy, warm down to the tips of his toes, but he says, “yes, thank you.”

Edmund flags down a waiter and gets them each a fresh glass. Mycroft sips his, the bubbles popping in his mouth.

“So tell me, Mycroft. Did this Assange fellow upset any of your plans?”

“Thankfully, no. None of the leaked cables have been marked Top Secret.” Bond Air is safe. “What about yours?”

Edmund pulls a face. “A few minor embarrassments. I wish they hadn’t spoken so ill of Westerwelle. The man’s become impossible to work with thanks to a bruised ego.”

Mycroft shrugs. “I’m sure you can handle him.”

“Yes.” Edmund’s eyes sparkle. He takes a sip of champagne. “And where’s the lovely lady I usually see on your arm at these things?”

“She’s at another engagement tonight.”

“So you’re unsupervised.”

“Quite.”

The corners of Edmund’s lips turn up the slightest bit. “Good.”

“How long are you in London?”

“Sixth of January. Then it’s back to the salt mines.”

Mycroft nods. “And where are you staying?”

“St James Sofitel.” The smile broadens. “I have fond memories of the place.”

Mycroft takes another sip of champagne. “As do I.”

Edmund’s eyes lock with Mycroft’s. There’s heat in his gaze. “Are we obligated to stay until midnight?”

“I believe I’ve seen and been seen enough.”

“Then let’s get out of here.”

“Agreed. Let me fetch my coat.”

* * *

The real beauty of the St James Sofitel is in its public spaces. The lounges and bars. The rooms themselves are hit or miss as far as the decor goes. This one is a frightful shade of cobalt, complete with a carpet of blue plaid. It’s entirely too modern for Mycroft’s taste. No matter. He’s not here for the scenery.

Edmund takes off his jacket and hangs it in the closet near the doorway. Mycroft does the same.

Edmund steps into his space, brushing his cheek with his fingertips. “It’s been too long. I was starting to think you’d ghosted me.”

Mycroft smiles. His face feels tight. Truly he had ‘ghosted’ Edmund, but he’s hardly going to admit that here and now. 

Edmund drops his hand, fingers trailing down Mycroft’s sleeve. “Do you want a drink?”

If Mycroft has any more alcohol, he’s not going to be able to perform. “Thank you, no. I’ve had enough tonight.”

Edmund nods and walks towards the bed.

Mycroft follows him, undoing his cufflinks and putting them in his shirt pocket.

Edmund sits on the bed, unties his bow tie and unbuttons his shirt, leaving the undone tie draped around his neck. It’s very rakish. A bit Hollywood bad boy.

Mycroft removes his own bow tie and puts it in the pocket with his cufflinks. Then he unbuttons his waistcoat.

“Allow me,” says Edmund. He stands up and moves in close, undoes Mycroft’s shirt buttons one by one. He slides his hand beneath the shirt, tracing a circle around Mycroft’s left nipple. The touch produces a reflexive shiver, but he can’t help but compare it to the touch of Greg’s gloved hand to his own on Christmas Eve. There was something intensely erotic about the caress of the leather. Mycroft imagined Greg touching him all over with gloved hands, the calfskin warming as Greg stroked him.

Edmund parts Mycroft’s shirt and slides a kiss down his neck as he exposes flesh. He slides down, down, unfastening Mycroft’s trousers as he goes and pulling them, together with his Y-fronts, around his knees.

Mycroft isn’t hard, but Edmund’s hot breath on his cock is going to change that quickly. Edmund blows, then sucks, engulfing the entirety of Mycroft’s cock in wet heat. As Mycroft hardens in his mouth he has to work his way backwards, until he’s sucking just the head while jacking Mycroft’s shaft with his hand.

Mycroft can find no fault with Edmund’s technique, and he knows if he continues like this he will come, but this isn’t what he wanted. He wanted nakedness, skin on skin, Greg’s weight pressing him into the mattress.

“Stop.”

Edmund pulls off him with a pop. “Something wrong?”

“I don’t want to come like this.”

“What do you want, then?”

“I want you to fuck me.”

Edmund grins. “Darling, I thought you’d never ask.”

He stands up, making quick work of his own clothing. Mycroft does the same. The floor is littered with various articles of evening wear--shoes and socks, trousers and garters, Edmund’s undone bow tie--and they are naked. Edmund has a swimmer’s body, lightly muscled and lean and nearly hairless. Greg would have chest hair. Mycroft pushes the thought down. His own body is freckled and soft around the middle. Mycroft can’t help but compare it to Edmund’s more youthful physique, wonder why Edmund is drawn to him, whether it isn’t about the power after all. He might not be way to advance his carreer, but it’s got to be erotic, getting a leg over someone in his postion. The giddy look on Edmund’s face is a testament to that.

Oh, well. He came here for a buggering, not to have his ego coddled. He lies face down on the bed. Edmund follows him, kissing down the length of Mycroft’s spine, biting the meat between his shoulder blades. He licks and sucks the divots on either side of Mycroft’s sacrum, then spreads his cheeks and oh fuck his tongue is laving at Mycroft’s cleft, spiraling around the tight ring of his arsehole. Mycroft relaxes at the attention, lets the probing muscle in. It’s hot, wet, and oh so filthy. Mycroft cries out into the pillow, squeezing it tight with both hands.

Edmund comes up for air. “Don’t bite the pillow, hon. I want to hear you.”

Mycroft groans, still into the pillow. Edmund slides up his back, laying a few hasty kisses along his spine, then grasps Mycroft’s hair and turns his head to the side. He licks the shell of Mycroft’s left ear.

“Oh.” Mycroft quivers. “Yes, please, do that again.”

Edmund nibbles his earlobe, then licks the sensitive spot again. He rubs the length of his erection against Mycroft’s arse. “Still want me to fuck you?”

“Please.”

“Hold on, lube and condoms are in my bag.”

Mycroft nods. He feels half drunk. Edmund rolls off him and sits up, pads into the bathroom on bare feet.

Condoms. Of course. Mycroft himself doesn’t have any. Not on his person, and not at his home. It’s been so long since he’s entertained anyone at his home they would have expired. He thought of this when Greg was sitting and drinking with him in front of the fire, when he thought that Greg might stay the night. He would have let Greg fuck him bareback, if he wanted, that was how badly he wanted Greg inside him. But with Edmund that would not be wise. He doesn’t think Edmund is reckless, but he’s attractive and single and has a high libido, ergo many partners. This is part of the reason Mycroft has never let Edmund fuck him before. They usually frot together, the old Princeton belly rub. It’s Mycroft’s preferred form of sex, but Greg is used to penetration, was thinking about fucking him, and why is he still thinking about Greg?

Edmund emerges from the bathroom with a strip of three condoms and a sleek black bottle. “Do you want me to prep you, or would you rather….”

Mycroft sits up and puts his hand out for the bottle. Edmund hands it to him. Mycroft slicks his fingers and lays on his back with his legs spread. He circles a finger around his hole, then presses it inside. There’s some resistance, which is why he’s not letting Edmund do this. But he would have let Greg breach him with his warm, callused policeman’s fingers.

“Give me a moment,” says Mycroft. “It’s been a while.”

“We’ve got all night,” says Edmund. He opens a condom packet and rolls it down onto his cock. The latex is jet black. Mycroft watches as Edmund drizzles lube over his hand and strokes himself leisurely, maintaining his erection. He swirls the finger inside himself and adds a second, working them in and out slowly.

Edmund watches, transfixed. He kneels on the bed and watches Mycroft, sets the lube on the nightstand.

Mycroft spreads his fingers apart and stretches himself, then removes them and beckons to Edmund.

Edmund takes his hand and then lowers himself on top of Mycroft. He guides his hand between his legs and presses himself against Mycroft, who takes a deep breath. He exhales as Edmund breaches him.

“Go slow.”

Edmund nods. He’s bracing himself above Mycroft with one hand and holding his cock with the other. His brow furrows.

Mycroft takes more deep breaths. Edmund thrusts shallowly, probing Mycroft with the first few inches of his cock.

Mycroft licks his lips. “You can go deeper.”

Edmund removes his hand and slides in the rest of the way. Then he goes still. “Tell me when.”

Mycroft takes a few more breaths. It’s been so long. The burn is not unwelcome, but it’s more intense than he remembered. “Now.”

Edmund rocks forward, and braces himself above Mycroft with both hands. “You feel so good.”

Mycroft closes his eyes. Edmund is warm and heavy. Mycroft wraps his legs around Edmund’s buttocks. Edmund rocks inside him. Mycroft drifts. With his eyes closed, he imagines Greg’s warmth. Greg’s weight. 

“Oh, God, you’re--”

Mycroft silences Edmund with a kiss. It’s sloppy and wet. He doesn’t want to hear Edmund’s voice right now. It’s disrupting his fantasy. Greg is on top of him. His tongue and his cock are inside him. He holds Greg tight, reaches up and caresses his hair. It’s wrong. It’s too long, too silky. He slides his hand further down, grasping Greg’s nape.

They rock together. Mycroft clasps tight, gripping Greg’s back. Greg breaks the kiss, caresses Mycroft’s face.

“Look at me.”

Mycroft reluctantly opens his eyes.

“You’re a thousand miles away. You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Edmund frowns. “You don’t seem like you’re having a good time.”

“I am. Just--a lot on my mind. You were helping me relax. And now, you are vexing me.”

“Apologies.” Edmund grins. “I didn’t mean to be _vexing_.”

“Well, you are. Make yourself useful and fuck me.”

Edmund chuckles, then thrusts his hips with renewed vigor.

Mycroft arches up, meeting him thrust for trust.

For the remainder of their coupling, he keeps his eyes open.

After, Mycroft, as usual, declines to cuddle. Edmund harumphs but does not insist. Mycroft gathers his clothing from the floor and dresses. His evening wear is rumpled, but he knows his coat will conceal the worst of it. He splashes his face with water in the en suite, smooths his hair, and re-ties his bow-tie in front of the mirror.

“Don’t be a stranger,” says Edmund.

Mycroft opens the closet in the entryway and fetches his coat. “Goodnight Edmund,” he says. “It was good to see you again.” He removes his gloves from his pockets and puts them on, drapes his scarf around his neck. Then he makes his way, first down the hall, then down the stairwell and out into the night.

It’s bitterly cold. Mycroft wishes he had a hat to cover his thinning hair. The car he called earlier is waiting for him now. His driver, Rizwan, opens the door for him. Mycroft nods to the man and climbs inside. He lets himself sink down into the leather interior. He’s tired.

His phone pings. He checks the message.

**Happy New Year! I hope Anthea let you kiss her.**

Greg. Mycroft winces. 

**To you as well, Gregory.**

**Actually, I’m kinda hoping you didn’t kiss her. I’d be jealous. Sorry. Shouldn’t have said tht. I’m a little bit drunk.**

Mycroft’s lips purse. There are so many ways this could go badly.

**I wish i could’ve been with youu tonight. Know your busy. I hope you had a good 3 days off. Also wanted to tell you its over. Me and Steph. I took your advice. Im at a hotel.**

Mycroft’s eyes widen. Surely Greg wouldn’t--

**I want to see you. Not tonight. Need to sober up. I’m not that stupd. Maybe we could meet for coffee next week?**

Mycroft stares at his screen. This is exactly what he didn’t want. First coffee. Then lunch, then dinner, then sex. Then he’s ruined. Still, he finds himself typing.

**I’ll check my calendar.**

**Thanks. Night Mike.**

**Please refrain from using nicknames.**

**Sorry. Call me tomorrow?**

**Drink a glass of water.**

**Will do.**

**Goodnight, Gregory.**


End file.
